My mother’s regret had always been unspoken, a shadow between us. Hearing that she had taken steps to give me what she once missed felt like a weight settling on my chest.
Lucía squeezed my hand. “She asked me to protect that money for our family. She told me it was her way of making sure you could be the father she wished she could have been for you.”
But there was more.
Lucía stood, walked to the bedroom, and returned with a sealed envelope. “Your mother gave me this too,” she said. “She told me to give it to you when the moment felt right.”
With trembling hands, I opened the envelope. My mother’s familiar handwriting covered the page.
“Son, you have always tried to carry everything yourself,” the letter began. “But life is not meant to be lived that way. When your child is born, be present. Don’t miss the moments that cannot return. Take care of the people you build a life with. Trust Lucía—she sees things you sometimes overlook.”
I had to pause several times, overwhelmed by her tenderness and clarity. It felt as though she had written the letter while looking directly into this exact moment.
When I finished reading, Lucía sat beside me. “There’s something else,” she said softly. “Something I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to scare you.”
She explained that her pregnancy had shown some possible complications, nothing immediate but enough for her doctor to request more tests. She admitted she had been anxious, saving not only for maternity leave but also for peace of mind and the baby’s wellbeing.
In that moment, everything inside me shifted. I had been so focused on helping my sister that I overlooked the person who needed me most—my own wife, the woman carrying our child.
Lucía and I agreed: my mother’s gift would stay exactly where she intended it to be. For us. For our child. For the beginning of our family.
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